The Hands that Feed You
by Elfpen
Summary: Born unwanted into a destitute family, Patrick Murphy works at the Estroch stables to care for his ailing mother. But beneath the years of hardship, there lies a talent that is about to be uncovered by a King's Ranger: an extraordinary way with horses.
1. Prologue: The Ranger

Title: The Hands that Feed You

Author: Elfpen

Summary: The world had never been kind to young Patrick Murphy. Born unwanted into a destitute family, he works at the Estroch stables to care for his ailing mother. But beneath the years of hardship, there lies a talent that is about to be uncovered by a King's Ranger: an extraordinary way with horses.

**A/N:** I know, I know. I've got a bazillion stories going on right now, and now I'm starting ANOTHER one. Why? Well… Come on. This is fanfiction. We do it for fun, yes? Fun little whimsies. This is a whimsy that has been floating about in my head for the past few months.

For those of you who are sighing in disappointment right now, you may be happy to know that the next chapter of 'Revenge' is just a few pages away from being done. I should have that up within this week.

Without further ado, the story. Happy reading!

**EDITORIAL NOTE**: Because it'll appear a lot in this story, I should tell you, the 'ch' in the town's name, 'Estroch', is pronounced similarly to the way you would pronounce it in the word 'loch' (Irish/Scottish lake) so the pronunciation become 'ESS-trock'.

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><p><strong>Prologue: The Ranger<strong>

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><p>Spring really was the best of all the seasons, he thought. Will smiled at a farmer as he passed by, and surprisingly, the farmer smiled back. <em>It's only because he doesn't recognize me,<em> Will thought to himself, glancing at the peasant garb he'd dressed himself in. With his bow strapped inconspicuously to Tug's saddle and no mottled ranger cloak to give him away, Will Treaty appeared no more than a fresh-faced young woodsman that day, and that was exactly how he wanted it.

Will had been stationed as the Ranger of Seacliff for over two years, now, and had managed to eradicate most criminal nuisances from the fief in that time. However, he made it a point to stay up-to-date on the local goings-on, and so, made periodical tours of the countryside to gather information under the guise of a commonplace traveler.

He'd been on the road for over a week now, sometimes camping in the woods, sometimes finding lodging in the closest settlement. He took every opportunity to converse with the locals, relying on the town gossip to lend him information which he methodically absorbed, processed, and filed away into his mental reserves. On this particular intelligence tour, the consensus was that Seacliff was largely at peace. Oh, there were petty squabbles here and there, and already Will had had to play mediator between two feuding farmers, but over all, Will's job as keeper of the peace had been made incredibly easy.

Now, as he rode through dusk into the small port-town of Estroch, Will was just a two-day ride away from his small cabin by the river. The local inn at Estroch would be his last stop before he headed home.

Above all else, Estroch was first and foremost a shipping town. Set right on the seafront, the streets were filled with the sound of tolling bells and hungry gulls. However, the small port town was far from busy or prosperous; judging by the empty streets and run-down buildings, Will gathered that business was not what it used to be. Even in the height of the spring trading season, when merchants from across the Constant and Western Seas should be flooding the docks, most of the tradesmen who Will saw were downcast and idle. The cargo they unloaded onto the docks was small in number and mediocre in value, and the ships at port were few and far between. In his travels, Will had seen what a healthy port town should look like: bustling, efficient, well-kept, busy, colorful and loud. Estroch was none of these things. In their place stood a damp, run-down, moldy, and overwhelmingly dreary settlement, bordered by once-great timber walls made black with rot. Where business should thrive, there stood decaying monuments to good times gone by: the empty port master's office, half-collapsed consulate offices for nations around the known world, and a huge warf that sat silently, wearily on the water, just waiting for the business of old to return.

The whole town made Will quite sad, and he couldn't fight away the gray cloud of melancholy that fell over his previously cheery mood. As he rode by on the main cobblestone road, a dirty young scullion ran out into the street toward some unseen destination. Will caught his attention. "You, boy, is there an inn here that would have a weary traveler for the night?"

"Aye," The young man turned big, bright eyes on Will, "you be lookin' for the Sign of the Siren. 'Tis the only tavern here wit a bed for ye, but Mistress Calloway's got a fine stew pot, she has." The bow grinned, gapped toothed and yellow, but cheerful all the same. Will smiled back and tossed him a small silver coin.

"Very well, lad – a good evening to you."

The boy looked at the small token in awe as though it were a jewel-encrusted crown, and beamed at Will. "Thank ye, sir! Thank ye very much!" And with that, he darted away to tell his parents of the kind young traveler who had favored him that day.

The tavern at the Sign of the Siren was a reasonably sturdy establishment in relation to the rest of the town. The exterior was weathered and rough, but indoors, Mistress Calloway kept the tables, counters and floors polished clean to a shine.

"Just yourself, then?" Calloway asked Will as she seated him at a small table.

"Yes, just me," Will smiled at her, and she set down a tankard of watered-down ale in front of him.

"Well then, welcome to Estroch, lone traveler. It's not much, but it's home to a few." She turned to the bar, where a young girl was cleaning dishes.

"Elyssa, see to it that this man has a full tankard and is well fed," she instructed. Elyssa nodded and retreated obediently to the kitchens.

"My daughter," Mrs. Calloway explained, "youngest of five. But the rest are out of the house, now." She frowned slightly at the thought of her four oldest, but quickly regained her rosy smile. "Anything else you'll be needing, sir?"

"Just a good warm room and a place to stable my horse," he smiled.

"An easy enough task. First door upstairs on the right - I'll get the key. As for your horse, there's a small stable out back that should suit your purposes well enough."

Will thanked her and hungrily tucked into the hearty beef stew that Elyssa had brought him. After he'd had his fill and deposited his bundle of things into his room, he left to get Tug bedded down for the night. As he led the shaggy ranger's horse into the stable, a young stable hand, no more than fifteen years of age, raised his head to watch the newcomer. Will noticed that he watched Tug with special interest.

"You've a fine horse there, Sir." The boy spoke unexpectedly.

Will paused to regard the boy with surprise. Most people hardly noticed the unimpressive looking, Temujai-stock ranger horses, and Will was taken aback at the boy's comment. Tug was a truly unique and wonderful horse, it was true, but it just wasn't the type of thing that a casual observer noticed – much less something that a raggedy young stable hand noticed.

"How do you mean?" Will asked innocently, although his eyes sparked with interest.

The boy went pink in the face; he obviously hadn't expected any questions. "He's got good strong legs," the boy explained, avoiding eye contact with Will, focusing instead on Tug. "A strong chest and neck, too. Fleetfooted, I'd say, with an endurance longer than most." The boy dared a glance at Will and, seeing no condescension there, added with a grin, "and he has eyes more intelligent than some grown men. A fine horse, as I say." The boy returned his focus back to his work, and after a moment of watching him, Will nodded.

"You've a good eye, then. Thank you."

Will moved Tug into the nearest stall, which had been bedded with fresh straw, presumably by the young stable hand, and stocked with plenty of hay and oats to satisfy Tug's appetite. After he removed Tug's tack and gave him a generous rubbing-down, Will snuck his old friend a shining red apple. "You deserve it, boy." Will fondled Tug's forelock as the equine tossed his head in appreciation. "Be good for our hosts, hmm? And don't bite this young fellow if he tries to take care of you. He's a good lad, I think." Tug snorted in horsey derision, as if the notion of biting someone had never occurred to him in the first place. _I would never think of biting anyone, you nonnyhead. Besides, I like him._

Will rolled his eyes. "Of course. Except, of course, for that poor lad in Clifstead who was, as I recall, trying to be kind and brush the sweat off you."

_He was being rough, and not at all kind._

Will just shook his head and patted Tug's muzzle one last time, wondering briefly about the strange communication between he and his horse before heading away to bed.

"Have a good evening, sir," The stable hand said as Will passed.

"You as well," Will replied.

That night, lying stretched out on his bed, Will wondered about the boy's uncanny eye for horses. He'd managed to hone in on Tug's finest qualities with a passing glance, and was able to articulate those qualities clearly to Will. Obviously, the boy possessed talents far above the range of most stable hands. It was odd, Will thought, to find a mind so attuned to horses in a town so dedicated to the sea. Yet it was reassuring as well – instinctively, Will knew that Tug would be well looked after during their stay in Estroch.

Just before he drifted to sleep, Will realized that he'd never learned the boy's name.


	2. 1 The Stable Boy of Estroch

**1**

**The Stable Boy of Estroch**

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><p>Mrs. Calloway smiled at him as he came in from the back door, picking out hay from his clothes and hair. He smiled at her, and despite the layer of dirt that adorned his face, his gentle green eyes shone with unfailing good humor.<p>

"I hear you've a charge for the night, Patrick," Mrs. Calloway said as she set aside a freshly-cleaned dish to dry.

"I have," Patrick replied, eyes alight, "and a fine one, at that. Never seen a horse like him."

Mrs. Calloway eyed him, "I saw that woodsman's horse when he came through, well enough. It was a thick, shaggy thing, little more than a pony. You call that 'fine'?"

Patrick nodded without hesitation. "Yes, Mistress. He's a fine leg and hoof, and a mighty wit. It's almost as if he can understand me, sometimes."

"You've been talking to him already?"

"Well of course, Mistress," Patrick said innocently, "I talk to all my charges."

Calloway just shook her head, a small smile spreading over her dimpled cheeks. "I suppose its only fitting; you're nearly horse-kind yourself, aren't you? I've told you before, there's always a spare room open to you."

"The stables are fine and warm, Mistress – and it helps me look better after the horses."

The innkeeper shook her head. "Sleeping in the stables, talking to the charges, ranting and raving about everything horse-related. Why, I wouldn't be a mite surprised if you sprouted a pair of equine ears yourself, Patrick." The young teen laughed at this, and Calloway set aside her cleaning.

"I suppose you'll be wanting this," she fished something out of her apron and handed it to the boy, who cupped his hands to catch his wages of silver coins. He counted them quickly and smiled up at Calloway. "Thank you, Mistress," He said, and made for the door.

"You come back quickly, Patrick – night's upon us, and I don't want you in the streets after dark."

He peeked his head back in the door for a second to say, "Yes, Mistress!" and then he was gone again.

Calloway watched him go with a sad little frown on her brow. She knew he was off to care for his mother, and she knew it was his duty. But it made her both sad and angry; sad because Patrick deserved a better life than spending every penny on his mother, angry because his mother wasn't a real mother at all. Calloway herself was the only motherly figure that Patrick had ever known.

Calloway sighed and returned to her work. "Oh, Patrick," she whispered, "Lord knows she doesn't deserve you as a son."

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><p>" 'Ere ye are, lad," the butcher half-smiled at Patrick and passed him the paper-wrapped cut of pork.<p>

"Thank you, Lionel." Patrick deposited the parcel carefully in his satchel, handed the butcher two coins, and jogged out the door. He walked quickly about his errands – dusk was growing thick, and it would soon be dark and shops would close. He ran to the baker with haste and stayed just long enough to buy two small loaves of sour dough. After that, it was off to the candle-maker's shop for a dozen new wicks and a bar of soap.

Just as the sun made its last goodbyes to Estroch, Patrick ran up the way to the easternmost part of town, hugging his bulging satchel close. Here, there were few inhabitants, much less houses, but atop a tiny hill set right on the border of Estroch's walls stood a ramshackle wooden hut, one side propped up by a pillar of precariously-laid brick and stone. Anyone passing by might have guessed that the old structure had been abandoned long ago for its age and instability, let alone its unfortunate placement away from the center of town. But little details spoke of occupants that lived there still; a steady puff of smoke from the crooked chimney, a line of clothes out to dry, and little paddock outside where two chickens and an ancient-looking pony stood. Patrick trod the winding path to the door as he did every day, and pushed open the door with his shoulder.

"Mother?" He called over the noisy hinges of the door, "I've brought you some dinner." He set down his bag and began pulling out his purchases. The candles came first, and he quickly set to lighting one to replace the useless stub of wax that sat half-melted on the table. As soon as he had enough light to work by, he brought out the bread and pork and made a small cold-cut sandwich with them. He picked up the candle in its clay holder and roamed to the only other room in the small house. "Mother?" He called again, raising the candle to peer into the room.

A woman, haggard and dirty despite being relatively young, looked up at him through a tangle of yellow locks. "Patrick," she hummed mellowly, "you've come back," she seemed less pleased at his presence than she did at the food he'd brought with him.

"Of course I have, I always do," Patrick came over and set the candle on a small side table. There, he spotted a tall green bottle and sighed heavily. "Mother, have you been at the drink again?" He asked balefully. She only shrugged noncommittally.

"Oh, you know me, Patrick, I really couldn't never help meself…"

And Patrick's face saddened at that, because it was true. "You know you shouldn't, mother, it'll be the death of you one day." He repeated the words he'd said to her over a thousand times and handed her the sandwich, which she bit into gratefully. In truth, he was happy enough to find her sober – that in itself was a gift these days.

"You're a good boy, Patty." She told him through a mouth of bread.

He hated that name, but he'd never found the heart to tell her. "Thank you, mother," He said softly, though he really meant nothing by it beyond politeness.

After she was through, he did what he could to straighten up her room, cringing and biting his tongue at every empty bottle he found among the rubbish. He swept the floors, opened the windows to the fresh night air and made sure that his mother had clean clothes. He washed her off and set aside a portion of food for her breakfast the next morning. He watched her fall asleep, and then he left.

He went by the small paddock outside to feed the emaciated chickens that lived there. Then, he smiled for the first time that evening as the old pony crossed over to him.

"Hello, Molly," He ruffled her dirty white mane fondly, and her ears perked at his voice. Blind and a trifle deaf, Molly was an ancient old carter pony that had outlived her purpose in the town years ago. Patrick had insisted on caring for her when her previous owner was forced to turn her out to pasture. She was a bony, dysfunctional old mare, but she was the brightest spot in Patrick's life, for unlike all the other things in his life that went solely towards his mother, Molly was truly his. "How've you been, old girl?"

Molly made a wheezing sort of whinny and pressed her soft muzzle against his chest. He smiled and petted under her chin. "Aye, I like the sound too." He looked out over the ocean-side view to which his equine friend had been whinnying about, and listened to the rhythmic crashing of the waves. "Perhaps I'll bring you down there tomorrow. But it's the stables tonight – you need your exercise, and it's still a bit to nippy for you to stay outside." As he said all this, Patrick was fastening the cloth-rope halter around Molly's white head so that he could lead her gently down the path to Estroch. Though Molly was not prone to run away from her young master, she was blind and had to be led by a short rope. Not that she minded much, for she would have stuck close to Patrick anyhow.

Once they reached the Sign of the Siren, it was well past dark. The moon was high overhead and bathed the town in a soft glow through a haze of overcast clouds. Patrick led his pony around the back to the stables, the only stables in all of Estroch, where he bedded her down for the night. His new charge -Tug, he'd heard the young traveler call him - looked up interestedly at the new arrival. Molly's ears pricked as she caught the smell of another horse, and Patrick let her stop by Tug's stall so the two could exchange horsey introductions.

"A bright new charge, eh?" Patrick asked Molly, nodding at Tug, "Haven't seen another horse in weeks, much less one so fine as him, hmm?"

Tug snorted appreciatively at the compliment, and Molly continued to whuff and whinny at her new friend as Patrick laid out a bed of straw for her. After he was confident that his old pony would be comfortable for the night, Patrick went over to Tug's stall and checked his water supply.

"I suppose you've seen more travels then most," he heaved up a bucket of fresh water and dumped it into the trough. "Your master seems one to enjoy the road, at least." He turned and patted Tug's snout – respectfully, of course, as Tug wasn't his horse. "I wish I could go with you, at least for a while. I've always wondered what other places there are out there. Oh, the stories you could tell me, if only you could talk." When Tug snorted into his palm, Patrick smiled. "Then, of course you can talk. Just not to me. But you understand me, don't you?" Tug rolled an intelligent eye on the boy in silent affirmation and Patrick nodded. "Aye, better than some horses. Well, a good night to you, Tug."

Patrick patted Tug and said goodnight to Molly, then climbed up into the hay loft. He grabbed two blankets from where they lay folded, spread one over a pile of soft straw and the other over himself as he lay down. He relaxed there for some time, watching the twinkling stars through the spaced boards of the stable walls, just as he did every night.

Sometimes, he wondered what else was out there, beyond the rotting walls of Estroch. Were there castles? Great plains and forests? Fortresses and bustling cities? Patrick had heard that there were, but he'd never seen them for himself. Every time a traveler came through Estroch, a strange ache awakened in Patrick's chest, striking a chord somewhere between longing and sadness. He'd didn't often consider what would become of his life in the years to come, but in those moments when he saw outsiders or cared for their mounts at the stables, he caught a glimpse into a world that was alien to him and all of Estroch. It was a world of activity, of cheerfulness, of prosperity and excitement, and Patrick wanted to see it desperately.

Patrick did not truly hate Estroch, with its small population and nonexistent trade, but he had nothing in this small, forgotten town. There was Molly, but Patrick knew he would likely loose her in a few years time. Mrs. Calloway was a true friend to him, but even if he stayed in Estroch, he would leave her care eventually. And then there was his mother. His mother was the only thing that kept Patrick from running away from Estroch altogether. She was his only true duty, and no one would care for her if not for Patrick.

The boy sighed at the thought. He'd never truly felt anything fond towards his mother, aside from the familiarity of years and a deep pity for her deplorable condition. Beneath her grimy, drunken exterior and years of neglect, his mother had once been the daughter of a respectable merchant. Innocent and beautiful, she was wooed at a young age by a tall, handsome Hibernian sailor, with whom she eloped without ever being properly married and joined on the high seas. They sailed about the world without any cares for some time, before they discovered that she was carrying their child. That was when everything had changed. Just before Patrick was born, a storm had driven his father's ship aground on a point not far from Estroch. Stranded in Araluen with an unsailable ship and a pregnant wife, Patrick's father had settled, quite reluctantly, at the edge of Estroch, right by the sea.

In the years of his childhood, Patrick had learned very quickly that he was unwanted. He was nothing more to his parents than an unplanned, unexpected surprise, put upon two previously happy people. His mother had always felt some love for him, he knew, out of pure maternal attachment, but he remembered many times when his father would look at him with distain, as one would regard a particularly repulsive pest. In those looks, Patrick knew that _he_ was the reason that they were stuck here. _He _was the reason that his father was unhappy. _He_, the child that had grounded this untamable seaman, was the reason for the family's consuming poverty. And that was the beginning of Patrick Murphy's life in Estroch.

In the years following, his father had managed to buy himself a small cog and gather a crew enough to start a trading business, ferrying cargo from across the Constant Sea and occasionally from his homeland of Hibernia. Things were on the up, and for a time, Patrick's family was doing well. But then, in a quick and unexpected turn of events, the local authorities discovered that Captain Murphy was smuggling goods in from all over the world, and smuggling out the hard-earned wares of Araluen merchants. With haste, Murphy packed up all his valuables, boarded his ship, ironically named the _Freeman,_ and sailed away. Before he left, he swore to his wife and son that one day, he would return for them.

He never did.

After than, life slowly descended into what Patrick now regarded as normal. His mother delved into heavy drinking and lost her meager job because of it. Unable to care for her son, she holed herself up in their old home and left Patrick to fend for himself. For a time, he lived on the streets, picking up odd jobs and wages here and there to care for himself and his helpless mother.

When he was about eight years old, Patrick had found himself in the stables behind the Sign of the Siren during a wild thunderstorm. That was when he'd met his first real horse. A massive draft animal, Patrick had hidden beneath the huge beast's legs for comfort and shelter from the leaky stable ceiling. The gentle animal had complied to the boy's needs, and kept him safe and warm throughout the stormy night. It was after that that Patrick picked up his affinity for horses. A generally quiet lad, he hung around the stables and simply watched them. Their whinnies, snuffles, cantering and oat-munching. Everything the horses did, Patrick watched. The elderly stablemaster took notice, and took on Patrick as a stable hand. The innkeeper with whom the stablemaster was good friends, Mrs. Calloway, provided Patrick with food and lodging while he worked, and made sure he had enough money to care for his mother. Years later, with many lessons learned and skills acquired, Patrick was still the lone stable boy of Estroch. His old master had died when he was twelve, but he continued to run the stables by himself. So, in a way, he was the stable master of Estroch, but then, it wasn't much a stable to be master of.

Although Patrick remembered a time when the streets bustled with horses, mounts and drafts alike, there were very few horses in Estroch these days. He took on a charge or two every week or so, but the horse business of Estroch was far from big. Nevertheless, Patrick took great pride and joy in his work, and loved every minute he could spend with the horses. They were his escape from his confined life, the one thing he understood. They were, in a word, the only thing in all of Estroch that mattered to him.

So perhaps that was why he so longed to get away from Estroch on a mount such as Tug. Not on Tug himself, of course, for he belonged to another, and Patrick could never steal another man's horse, but all the same, Patrick dreamed of a day when he could secure a fine mount and ride, run far far away from Estroch and never look back, to seek some life beyond the seaside backwater that had been the only world he'd ever known. As he had the thought, the image of Patrick's mother rose unbidden in his mind, and he realized that so long as she needed to be cared for – and she always would – he would never leave this place.

Molly sneezed, and the sound brought Patrick back to the present. The stars twinkled from beyond the stable walls, so beautiful, and yet so far away. Patrick sighed, rolled over and fell asleep.

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><p>AN: So, an intensely boring first chapter, but I felt it was necessary to introduce Patrick's backstory. Hopefully you didn't find it entirely dull. Reviews and constructive criticism are love!


	3. Wine and Waves

A/N: I've been meaning to update this story for a very long time, but unfortunately, after I got nearly 5,000 words into writing this chapter, my computer was fried by a lightning storm and I lost the whole thing. I've been holding a childish grudge against this thing ever since. I can't remember hardly at all what I wrote (what kind of author am I?) and have been forced to start over from scratch. Hopefully it'll turn out alright.

The only reason I am updating now is because the lovely **Arliss Starborn** and her friend **Hunter** requested that I do so. This goes to demonstrate something that I probably should have told all you readers years ago:

**If you want me to update a particular story, PLEASE TELL ME. There's just so many, I usually just update the ones that I want to write at that particular moment in time, but if you request an update for a specific story, I WILL LISTEN. So, send your requests my way, if you have them.**

Anyway. On with the chapter. (Sorry that it took a while, Arliss! Thanks for waiting, and I hope you enjoy. ;)

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><p><strong>2.<strong>

**Wine and Waves**

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><p>Ever since he'd arrived in Estroch, something had been nagging at the back of Will's mind. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something – beyond the general poverty and worn-down feeling of the town – was amiss. It took him another day and a half in Estroch before he finally figured it out.<p>

It was the local guard. There _wasn't_ one.

Will was used to the kind of police order one would find in his home of Redmont – not oppressively present, but a definite underlying order - a guard here, a horseman there. In Estroch, however, there was no sort of civil law enforcement in place that Will could see, and that made him nervous.

Obviously, since people seemed relatively unafraid to walk out on the streets alone and crime wasn't an obvious problem, Will figured that any local criminal activity would be a low-profile, clandestine business. Naturally, he'd have to investigate. Luckily, Rangers could outmatch even the sneakiest criminal when it came to clandestine work, but then, even the sneakiest rangers had to get started in a suitably straightforward way. And so, on a clammy Tuesday afternoon, Will went where he always went when he found himself in search of juicy, criminal gossip.

The local pub.

If towns had armpits, the _Greasy Raven_ would have undoubtedly qualified for the position. "It_ is_ greasy," Will muttered to himself, wondering what had inspired the bartender to name his tavern. Then again, he thought, as he stepped into the main room, perhaps the lowlifes here thought grease was beautiful. At any rate, it seemed to be a favorite hairstyle among the _Raven_'s customers.

About a dozen eyes turned to stare as the cloak-clad stranger stepped into the doorway. Will had to pause for a moment, trying not to wince against the pipe smoke that stung his eyes. After he'd adjusted, he stepped into the room fully and approached the bar with a confident gait.

"What'll it be, stranger?" The voice surprised Will, and he did a double take at the small woman – no, he corrected himself, girl – who was now watching him expectantly.

"Coffee, if you have it." He smiled kindly at her.

"We don't," She said, completely straight-faced as she wiped out a grimy tankard. A soft chorus of laughter echoed from a nearby table, and Will tried not to glare at them.

"Well then, a house ale."

Without the slightest change in expression, she nodded and turned away. Will watched her go, hoping she wouldn't hand him the tankard she'd been cleaning. There was no possible way for that to be sanitary.

She returned shortly with a foam-topped pewter mug (Will sighed in relief) and held out her hand. He gave her a copper and took his drink to a small, abandoned corner table, where he settled down, pulled out his throwing dagger and began to sharpen it absently. In a place like this, he thought, he would hardly look exceptional. Which, of course, is what he wanted, because while he may have had a drink on his table and a knife to sharpen, his attention wasn't truly invested in either. He was listening.

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><p>Kelisse peeked another glance at the stranger who'd walked in earlier that day. He'd been sitting there for hours, and had hardly touched his drink. He'd sharpened a knife, taken a doze, and ordered a roll of bread, but he hadn't drank even a third of his pint. Surrounded daily by drunkards and worse, Kelisse was unused to his clean, undrinking and (from what she'd experienced so far) polite personality. She frowned to herself and eyed him again. He couldn't possibly be up to any good, she thought. She took a mental note to keep an eye on him.<p>

After scanning the taproom, she went to the back of the tavern, which doubled as both a storage space and a living space. As she selected a new keg of ale for the tap, which was running low, she sighed. There on the floor lay a fresh delivery of wine bottles, packed up in a crate. Wondering why on earth the barkeep couldn't bother to unpack his own wares, Kelisse set to the work herself, using all of her strength to haul up the big, dark glass bottles. As she was about done, she caught sight of her own reflection in the glass bottles and frowned.

She didn't have many chances to look at her own reflection, much less in an actual looking glass, but every time she did, she grew more alarmed. Her expression troubled, Kelisse put a hand to her breast, which seemed to have grown some since she last saw herself. She turned and looked at her reflection from a different angle and confirmed with growing anxiety that the once-baggy dress she was wearing was beginning to draw snugger at her hips, and the apron that she wore thinner about her waist. Quickly, feeling exposed, Kelisse excused herself from her work and tucked into a small room, her room, which housed a small bed and footlocker. She dragged a small stool over to keep the door closed and stripped off her dress. She took out a long length of thin fabric from her footlocker and began to wrap it around her chest, on top of the fabric that was already there, pulling at it determinately until it wound so tight she could hardly breathe. She tied it off and dug through her clothes to find the baggiest, most unattractive dress she could find and put it on. She put her apron back on, but tied it loosely so it would hang about her hips in an incredibly unflattering fashion. All this done, she made sure her hair was suitably messy, and went back out to finish her work.

She didn't know what she would do in a few years, when she finished growing. There'd be no hiding it, then. Kelisse was only thirteen, but every day she was beginning to look more and more like a woman, and that scared her – for good reason. She _knew_ what happened to women who worked in places like the _Raven_. She was old enough to know how all of _that _worked, and she'd heard too many stories from the other women to think that she was exempt from the dangers posed to young women in places such as the _Raven_.

Truthfully, Kelisse wasn't all that pretty, even when she wasn't dressed in rags and greasy hair, but true beauty didn't mean much to those thugs, and if they saw something they wanted, they'd be sure to get it. _Especially when they're at the drink all day,_ Kelisse thought to herself. She'd seen how brutish men could get when drunk, and she wasn't fool enough to think she stood a chance against any of them. Kelisse was strong for her small size, and had developed a mean right hook over the years, but she simply wasn't big enough to have any hopes against any of those drunks. And so, she protected herself the only way she could: she disguised her femininity altogether. She bound her chest and hid the curve of her widening hips beneath baggy clothes, and whatever beauty her face might've held was buried beneath a bird's nest of ill-kempt hair. It was quite a bother to keep the charade up every day, and rather painful in the case of her chest, but Kelisse was too afraid to try otherwise. So long as they didn't even recognize her as a woman, they wouldn't bother her. Now that she was growing, however, Kelisse wondered if, in few years time, she wouldn't be able to hide it. And then what would she do?

Before she could answer her own question, a soft knock sounded on the back door, a rhythm she recognized.

"Hello, Patrick," She said halfheartedly as she opened the door. His freckles dimpled up at her.

"Hello, Kel, I was just here for… Well, you know." He shifted his weight nervously. She halfway wanted to roll her eyes, but sufficed with a sympathetic smile and stepped aside.

"Come on in, Patrick." She said in a longsuffering sort of way. Patrick did, and frowned when he could see her in the candlelight of the back room.

"Kel, you look awful. Really, Shammock should treat you to better clothes, he should. It's not right." He frowned, genuinely saddened by his friend's haggard look. Kel only smiled slightly.

"Oh, you know him, Master Shammock, he doesn't really think of that kind of thing. But it's really fine, Patrick, they're more comfortable than they look," She said, picking at her clothes and smiling. She didn't even think of telling him why she was really dressed that way – Patrick was too innocent and kind-hearted to comprehend the sort of perversion she faced on a daily basis, let alone consider that she'd sacrifice her own comfort and hygiene just to avoid it.

"Oh," He said, obviously not consoled, "Well, you should tell him to treat you better, anyway," He murmured, thinking that Kel looked anything but comfortable.

Kel cleared her throat. "Well, let's get this over with. How many?"

"Oh, uhm… Six." Patrick said.

"Six?" Kel said, startled. She let out a heavy sigh and turned away to retrieve a small crate of wine bottles from the storeroom. She counted out six, uncorked one, and poured it into a barrel. The rest she opened and promptly poured out onto the ground. She winced as she watched the crimson liquid spill off through the soil. "I can't keep doing this, Patrick," She told him as he came up beside her and began to pour out another bottle, "Shammock'll have my hide."

"I pay you the same, don't I?"

"Well, yes, but he wouldn't care. It's wasting his wares," Kel set aside the empty bottle and began on another.

"Wares that I _pay_ for, though."

She shook her head at him. "I tell you, he doesn't think normally, Shammock. Set the empty ones over there. I'll get the water." Kel rose and returned a few minutes later with two buckets filled with water. She poured them into the barrel with the bottle's worth of wine and mixed them together. While Patrick emptied the last two, she began refilling the other four with the watered-down wine.

"Does this actually help any?" Kel asked him.

Patrick shrugged. "I can't see how it can hurt any more, at least. She's going to drink anyway. This just means that she'll hurt herself less with each bottle."

"Won't she taste the difference?"

"No. I don't think she can taste anything anymore." Patrick said sadly. Kel didn't try to reply. They worked in several minutes silence before Kel said,

"There's a pack of wax on the low shelf, there. I'll get a flint and a tin."

They melted the wax and re-sealed all six of the bottles, now filled with watery wine, and they looked as though they'd never been opened.

"That should do it. Thanks, Kel," Patrick said. He dug into his pocket and handed her payment for all six bottles. "I suppose I'll be going, then." He said. At that moment, his stomach decided to growl loudly enough for both of the teens to hear.

"You haven't eaten today, have you?" Kel said accusatorily. Patrick blushed. She sighed.

"Patrick, just because your mother can't help herself doesn't mean you have to go hungry for her. Come on, let's get you some dinner."

* * *

><p>Patrick ate just outside the <em>Raven<em>. He hated going into the nasty taproom, and besides, it was a beautiful evening outside. Kelisse had made him a bowl of what stew was left, and insisted that he take it for free, as no one would end up eating it anyway. It was quite delicious – for however disgusting the tavern was, Kelisse had developed an amazing cooking ability.

Kelisse and Patrick had known each other for years, since they were small children. Kel had been an orphan long before Patrick's father had sailed away, and in her street wanderings, she'd met and befriended young Patrick, who was too soft-hearted to turn her away when she decided to follow him everywhere. After his father had left and he was turned out onto the streets, Patrick had found Kelisse and the two had stuck together, helping each other as they could. Just before Patrick had found a home at the stables, Kelisse had been hired to work at the _Raven_. Neither of them liked it, but the pay kept Kel alive, and she'd convinced Patrick of the same. They didn't see each other as often as they used to, but were no less friends because of it. Nevertheless, they had changed over the years. Patrick had grown tired from his duties with the horses and his mother's failing health, and Kel had grown harder and colder than she'd been before after working at the _Raven _for a few years. Neither of them liked each other's situation, but neither of them stopped liking each other because of it. That's what friends were for, Patrick thought.

He glanced up at the sinking sun and realized that he needed to leave before it grew too dark. Patrick dusted off his hands and set his bowl and spoon right outside the door, as Kel had instructed him to.

Just as he was about to pack up his things and leave, Patrick spotted something that made him frown.

The freshfaced young traveler staying at the _Siren_ stepped out of the _Raven. _Patrick couldn't quite see all of the man's face because of the cloak, but he was sure it was him. But why would he be _here_ of all places? Mrs. Calloway had a much finer, cleaner tavern, and obviously the woodsman could afford it. Why on earth did he choose to come here? Patrick wasn't willing to think that he was the type to solicit places like the _Raven._ Was he?

Will glanced around, and for a moment, Patrick thought that he'd been seen, but then he turned his eyes away and disappeared down the road. Trying his best not to wonder _too _much about the strange circumstance, Patrick picked up his wares and hurried back to his mother's home.

He didn't make any noise when he entered. He snuck around to the place where his mother had her wine and drinks delivered every so often and switched out the strong wine she'd ordered with the watered-down stuff he'd bought. Then, he took the offending bottles out with him to the beach.

"Stupid drink," He grumbled, tossing one of the bottles out to sea. "Ruin her life, why don't you? Ruin _my_ life," He heaved another. "Keep me cooped up here, just trying to keep her sober," He stopped for a breath, and the lapping waves brought one of the bottles floating back to shore. He grit his teeth and went to pick it up, but as he did, a stray wave picked it up and smashed it against the rocky shore, so when his hand reached it, he grabbed at shards. He gasped and drew back a bloodied hand. The sound of the waves taunted him. Unbidden, tears grew in his eyes. "Go on, you devils!" Patrick growled suddenly, tossing bottles as far as he could, ignoring his bleeding palm. "And don't come back! Not ever! Let the waves carry you away where you'll never come back, just like they did to him!" He screamed as he threw another, "Just like you did to her!" He threw the last one and added, as the bottle flew through the air, "Just leave me, will you, just like they both did!" He cried, wishing the tears weren't there, and fell back against the sand. He looked at his own hand expressionlessly, and ripped off a section of his shirttails to wrap it in.

He must've been a miserably weak boy, Patrick thought, because he knew that real men didn't cry like this. He didn't _want _cry, didn't _want _to be so angry at the sea and the bottles, but he'd spent too long hating them to stop. "I'll never get them back," He told the waves and the wine. Then, downcast, he added, "as if they'd want me if they ever did come back." They'd taken everything from him, even if it hadn't been much to begin with.

Molly nudged his back, and Patrick turned to her. He wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve. "I'm sorry, Molly," He said softly, stroking her foreleg from where he sat on the ground, "I suppose I've still got you." He had to smile just a bit when she blew into his hair, but he grew sad again as he clambered up beside her. "You musn't ever leave, girl." He told her sternly. "I don't care how old you get, you mustn't ever leave, alright?" He hugged her neck, sniffling. "You're all I've got, you know. And you'll never leave."

He knew it was a lie, and Molly seemed to know it too, but neither horse nor master made any comment about it that day. They walked silently back over the hill where Patrick's mother stayed, and down to Estroch and the _Siren_. Patrick cleaned and bandaged his hand, bedded down Molly and Tug, climbed up to the hayloft, and fell asleep quietly.

Later, he woke up.

But it wasn't quite the right amount of 'later' to be morning, Patrick realized with a strange awareness. He could see darkness beyond the stable ceiling, and then, as his ears woke up a bit more, he realized that he could hear someone talking down in the stables.

"…Just go out and have a look, for now." He heard someone whisper. As quietly as he could manage, Patrick snuck over to the edge of the hayloft and peeked down.

Wrapped in a cloak, the young woodsman finished buckling Tug's girth and mounted up easily. In the soft moonlight, Patrick could see a massive longbow and quiver silhouetted against the man's back. Patrick suddenly remembered the previous day, when he'd seen the man outside of the _Raven_, and wondered to himself at how strange the young man was. Where was he going?

Will rode out of the stables quietly, leaving Molly snoozing in her stall. Patrick leaned carefully over the loft's edge to watch him go. He was a strange young man, with strange traveling habits. Strange, and yet…

Patrick couldn't help his own curiosity. Thinking the whole time that he'd gone mad, Patrick pulled on his boots and a warm tunic, and climbed down the ladder. He leaned out and saw that Tug was taking his master toward the dark western woods. Patrick took a deep breath, and not sparing a second to think about how stupid he was being, he began to follow them.

* * *

><p>AN: A intensely weird chapter. Bleh. Oh well. As I said before, I'm sorry this took so long, Arliss! Hope you enjoyed it, and they'll be more soon, as often as I can find time to write. Thanks for reading!

Read and Review, please.


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